A Liability
by changinlndscape
Summary: At the end of the day, Castle isn't a cop. And that can be dangerous. **One Shot**


Because at the end of the day, his vest doesn't say _POLICE_, it says _WRITER_.

A story in which I am really, really mean to our favorite characters. Fair warning, this is not a happy story, but no character death.

Fits anytime after Caskett is established.

I'm not sure this even needs a "T" rating, but I dunno where the line is. ONE SHOT.

.

.

**Liability**

.

.

_Life can be funny_, Castle thought. _So funny_, he thought again, a little dazedly. His thoughts were running on a loop. Funny that the woman sprawled across his chest right now was the same one who had been yelling at him across their bedroom just last night. Who had attended the Johanna Beckett Memorial Fundraiser with him without speaking, seething quietly between forced smiles directed at colleagues and beneficiaries and basically everyone but him. So even though he had to bend awkwardly to do it, he pressed his nose into her hair and murmured another apology. Then he collapsed back to his previously recumbent position, exhausted. With his eyes closed, his mind wandered.

.

.

_"We never should have let it get this far," she'd said during one of the quiet moments between the furies of her anger. Her voice had been so steady. "It can't go on like this."_

_"Why not?" He had been trying so hard to hear her out, to let her voice her argument completely so that he could methodically, conclusively refute it._

_"Because it's not working!" The words had burst forth in a rush of expelled frustration, but they had settled around the room like dust, flitting through the half-light until they settled quietly in small piles around their feet and covered the gaping void between them._

.

.

Life can be funny in a lot of ways, but today was not one of the 'funny, haha' kind of days. No, today was one of those "this is a catastrophe, a real-life shit storm of blood and bullets and pain and I'm not sure we're going to make it, but some day, many years from now-if we even survived at all-we might chuckle at the irony" kind of funny. Castle wasn't laughing now. He peeled his eyelids back with the kind of effort required to pry open storm windows after a long winter and squinted in the painful, white light. His eyes felt sandy.

Castle tried to breath deeply, squeezed his eyes shut and counted to five. Carefully, painstakingly, he repositioned his grip on her. He wrapped his left arm around her back and dug his fingers into her armpit. Then, with an agonizing surge, he pushed off with his legs and slithered four more feet in the dirt; just like he'd been doing over and over again for the last twenty minutes. Gasping, back arching in a futile attempt to escape the pain, he ground his teeth together to keep from screaming. As it was, he still had to turn his face into the dirty, gritty pavement to muffle the groan he couldn't contain.

As the fiercest edges of pain receded he realized that his eyes were _actually _full of grit from repeatedly rubbing his face against the ground. But he couldn't spare a hand to wipe at them, and even if he could, his good hand was just as dirty as his face. And a face full of dirt was better than revealing their location. Craning his neck to see around the mess of Beckett's hair, he glanced down at his right arm, mangled and twisted, dragging uselessly beside him. The exposed end of the fracture was also covered in dirt and grime, and his stomach lurched in revulsion. He looked away quickly and tried to quell the nausea without breathing too deeply, the searing burn in his ribs sending out flames of pain when he expanded his chest.

.

.

_He was trying to cushion the fall, somehow. Reaching out his right hand to soften the crash into the ground. Beckett had been screaming during the fall-pain from her gunshot wound and fear of falling through the rusty, decimated railing overruling her usually stoic nature. The fall was long enough for Castle to wonder how their limbs had become entangled, and how she could still possibly be screaming, when they hit._

_He'd known it was broken when he heard the snap, like the pop of a twig cracking underfoot. Beckett was suddenly, completely silent; she'd landed in a heap and never moved. Castle had looked at his arm just long enough to know how bad it was, scrambled over to Beckett to drag her out of view of the second-story windows, ignoring the strange pull of resistance when the broken bits of his arm snagged on the fabric of her coat. He had five, maybe ten seconds of clarity. Get out of sight. Check Beckett. Start heading in the right direction._

_And then the pain hit him with the force of a hot cast-iron pan to the face, and everything went a little fuzzy for a while. _

.

.

To distract himself from the renewed throb in his arm, Castle gave Beckett a shake. "Kate?"

His voice was breathy, forced out between cracked and bleeding lips, but it didn't matter. She was motionless, barely breathing. Certainly and deeply unconscious. Blood from the bullet wound in her shoulder was still seeping down onto his chest, an almost black puddle settling in the space between his pecs and coagulating at the edges, but the flow seemed to have lessened some. He sighed shallowly, closed his eyes, and shimmied a few more feet.

Instead of taking a moment to rest, he gritted his teeth and dragged Beckett a few more feet, drew in as big a breath as he could, and then pushed a few more. When he tried again his feet slipped, kicking up a new whirl of dust around them and jerking his body. The pain reverberated through him like a blast, setting all of his injuries on fire. His broken arm, his probably broken ribs, and what he was hoping was just a twisted knee but what was probably a renewed fracture in his kneecap-they all screamed infidelities at him.

"Uhhhnnnnnngggg." The sound came crawling out of his throat against his will. Somehow, his dry and sooty eyes produced tears that rolled down his cheeks and tickled at his ears before sliding down his neck.

.

.

_Beckett had been crying last night. Hot tears that he tried to brush away even through the cold anger congealing in the pit of his stomach. _

_"Don't cry, Kate. We can do this. We've _been _doing this. Today was an aberration, a fluke."_

_"You were almost killed, Castle. And it's not a fluke. It's only a fluke that it hasn't happened before. I won't let it happen again."_

_"But I'm fine. And I'm your partner."_

_"You're not a cop, Castle!" She was suddenly, completely, loudly raging at him. "You aren't a cop! You don't have training. You can't carry a weapon. You didn't know how to stay out of danger today. The only reason you work the scenes with us is because five years ago you refused to stay in the car so many times we stopped trying to make you! I got complacent, we all did. And that's on me," she had deflated, arms crossed. Though she lowered her voice, the jut of her jaw was firm. "It was a mistake. You don't belong out there with us."_

_"I take care of you. I'm a good partner, Beckett."_

_"You aren't a partner, Castle, you're a liability."_

_._

_._

Even through the pain and the fear of his current predicament, the memory of those words hurt. Then shame flooded through him at the thought of feeling hurt by words that were so totally true. Their current situation was his fault. He was dragging an unconscious Beckett across the dirty, filthy, abandoned alley of the warehouse district like a lifeguard saving a drowning woman because he had distracted her at the worst possible moment. The tension between them like a physical force turning her eyes from the crime scene to his pouting face until-

"Beckett? Beckett come in. This is Esposito. Location?"

Castle moaned in agony and frustration. "Like I said before, the com is broken, Esposito," he growled. At least there was hope. He knew where the boys were camped out. Another hundred feet and he'd be within their sightline. He was dying to just call out for help, but the fear of drawing the attention of the gunmen to their location while he couldn't move faster than an old, sick turtle kept him quiet.

Although, the way the energy was seeping out of him, he might have to risk it soon. His legs weren't really cooperating anymore. Instead of progressing by feet he was only gaining inches between long breaks. The sun felt like it was baking the skin of his face. A drop of sweat slid from his eyebrow down the side of his nose and into his eye and he couldn't be bothered to blink it away. He couldn't really feel his broken arm anymore, and it was only the threat of passing out that kept him from lifting his head to see that it was still there at all. When he closed his eyes he could pretend that nothing hurt, and he could feel the warm and luring cocoon of sleep wrapping around him.

He wrenched his eyes open, startled to find that he didn't know how long they had been closed. The weight of Beckett pressing on his chest felt much heavier than he knew her to be. Shifting, Castle tried to reassess how far he had to go. Too far. It was too far when his body was going numb and Beckett seemed to be dying in his arms. Her breathing was so shallow he couldn't be sure of it, and he was afraid to feel for a pulse. Afraid that there might not be one. Afraid that if he released his hold on her he might never gather the strength to hold on again. Castle tried to lick his lips, futilely dragging his dry tongue across his chapped lips, wincing at the sting the friction caused. He tasted blood. He bent his bad knee slightly, testing. The joint felt like it was filled with hot acid, pain dripping down his shin like lava, and he let it flop back to the ground. Castle was done. Just done.

Finished, he grimaced and sighed, leaning his head back to stare at the bright glare of the sun. Somewhere, some small voice reminded him that that was a bad idea; some elementary school memory about solar eclipses and special sunglasses, but he couldn't look away. Couldn't gather the energy to so much as blink; the act of closing the eyelids requiring so much more energy than usual when they are the texture of coarse-grain sandpaper.

And even though his eyes remained open, he felt consciousness slipping away from his weakening grasp until he gave in, and the glare of the sun expanded to fill his vision until the brightness became too much, and everything went dark.

.

.

_"Castle, be quiet," Beckett had reprimanded, not for the first time that morning. She was stalking through the abandoned building, looking for the suspects. Doing her job. She paused to listen before sweeping through another room, weapon at the ready._

_When they came to the open-air stairwell of the dilapidated old building, he couldn't resist starting up again. Even if it meant whining. "Beckett, I'm just saying that if you didn't want me here, I wouldn't be here. I have helped solve all kinds of cases!"_

_Beckett turned on him, her weapon dropping to her side as she heaved a sigh, radiating annoyance. "Castle, this? This, what you're doing right now? This is the perfect example of-"_

_The shot rang out before she could finish. Castle saw the shadow of movement in his peripheral vision; whirling clothes, a glint of sunlight off of the metallic edge of a weapon. He didn't have time to look, though, because Beckett had been hit. Her gun dropped to the ground as she lurched forward, curling in on herself. Her good hand reached out for the rusted old railing, the only barrier between them and the one-story drop. When she leaned on it, it gave way like cardboard, and she was falling. _

_Castle had grabbed for her, caught the loop of leather at the top of her shoulder, and was dragged with her over the edge._

_Beckett was screaming. _

_._

_._

It was the lazy, metronomic beat of the heart monitor that woke him this time. His eyes slid partway open, still stinging despite the lubricating gel the nurses had applied earlier. He remained still, a lesson learned earlier when he jerked into a fully sitting position only to be taken down by an onslaught of pain. Carefully, he took stock.

Everything hurt... but nothing hurt too much. _Mmm, morphine_, he thought with a doped-up grin at nothing. But he wasn't out of it enough for the grin to remain, and it fell away like a discarded piece of newspaper. He regarded the bulky splint containing his right arm with distaste. That was going to take forever to heal. His ribs too, though that wasn't as much of a problem.

His knee was, blessedly, only sprained. Small miracles. He wiggled his exposed toes experimentally, they were a little chilly. The big brace keeping his knee immobile prevented him from tucking his toes back under the blanket.

"You're awake."

The voice startled him, but the narcotics flowing through his system prevented him from really reacting. His heart monitor chirped twice in succession before resuming it's usual beat. Castle must be a little more drugged-up than he had realized, because Beckett was sitting quietly in the chair near the foot of the bed, a huge bandage over her head and her arm in a sling. Her eyes were glassy and red.

"You're out of surgery," he responded.

She started to nod, but her head tipped forward without bouncing back up, swaying on her shoulders, and he winced. "Should you be in bed, too?" he asked.

Slowly, she lifted her head to look at him. "Probably. When's your surgery?"

"First thing tomorrow."

Silence fell, the long pause measured by the beep and gurgle of equipment. When the silence became too much, Castle said, "Espo stopped by."

"I saw him."

"He saved us."

"Yeah."

He wasn't sure if it was the after-effects of anesthesia or the rebirth of tension between them that was keeping her so removed. He swallowed noisily against a dry throat, imagining the tissue sticking together and blocking his airway completely, and his eyes fell to the styrofoam cup at his bedside. "Can you... Can you help me take a drink?" he asked.

Beckett looked over at the cup, and back at him. Their eyes met briefly before she turned away, showing him the sharp edges of her profile. She was unmoving, distant, disconnected. "Don't think I can get up," she said finally.

They sat there lifeless, frozen. Beckett's gaze was riveted on the closed window dressings, as if she didn't realize they were closed, as if she could pretend she was gazing out the window. Castle couldn't look away from her.

"Esposito said," Castle finally spoke, "Espo said you had a pretty bad concussion. But the bullet wound was clean."

"Yeah. Surgery was because the films..." her voice drifted away, and she repositioned herself in her chair. Her _wheel_chair, he realized when she rocked a little where she sat. "...because the films were inconclusive. But everything's fine."

"Good. Espo... he said, I mean, I asked if he could teach me some things. Hand-to-hand combat. Weapon handling. He said he could help."

It wasn't enough. It was too little, too late, and they both knew it. But Beckett hummed politely, not ignoring him, and he appreciated the effort.

"I can be the partner you need."

Beckett turned to look at him, meeting his gaze through the haze of their combined drugs. Her eyes were blank when she said, "I don't think so, Castle." Then she made a sound that might have been the slowed-down hiccup of a dark chuckle. "Gates wants to give you a medal. She thinks you're a hero."

They both knew it wasn't true. Beckett turned away again, her head swiveling precariously on her shoulders.

"I'd have done anything to save you, Kate."

She didn't respond. Her eyes were trained on the curtains.

"This can't be the thing that tears us apart. Please don't let it be," he pleaded, wishing his head were clear because the muted dose of panic chewing at his diaphragm was more disturbing than the real thing.

"It's what brought us together," Beckett said finally. It was neither an answer, nor a comfort.

Life can be funny that way.

.

.

..(end)..

.

.

**A/N**: Um, I'm sorry? If you feel bad... go rewatch last night's ep! Thanks for reading!


End file.
